


I'm Trying All the Time

by JustMyName



Category: Turn (TV 2014)
Genre: Angst, Angst Angsty Angst, Anxiety, Canon Divergence, Cloak room, Condensed Timeline, Feelings Realization, M/M, Misunderstandings, Porn with Feelings, Reimagining of Season 4, Robert's pov, Sexual Tension, They are both realizing things with each other, Trapped In A Closet, Understanding, With their feelings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-25
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-15 22:34:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29690949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustMyName/pseuds/JustMyName
Summary: In which Robert and Abe end up in the cloak room instead of the hallway. Inspired by episode “Private Woodhull” Season 4. Robert deals with his anxiety and has trouble realizing his feelings and Abe is an idiot. (but not as much as Robert thinks)3-4 parts.
Relationships: Robert Townsend/Abraham Woodhull
Comments: 7
Kudos: 5





	I'm Trying All the Time

**Author's Note:**

> Starts off as a re imagining of their scenes in "Private Woodhull" from Robert's POV, and will go from there :) Hope you like.

  
_**“I can't read your mind though I'm trying all the time.** _  
_**There's something I don't know, I can see it in your eyes.”** _

Robert was in a frenzy. The infuriating farmer had walked into his coffeehouse this morning, and didn’t even have the courtesy to look remotely ashamed of himself. It was unsettling to see him dressed in the shocking officer’s ensemble: full red and green regalia, his hair unusually neat, the buttons of his half-length spats shining against the soiled wooden floor. Woodhull observed him as he joined Colonel Cooke at his table, and Robert’s heart fell to his stomach. The first thought that came to him was to _run_. It had all gone wrong. He’d been swindled, and all he could do was stand there, dumbly staring at Woodhull as he made the horrible realization. He tried to settle his shaky hands as best he could while he tended to the bar, telling himself that it could not possibly be true. The idea that Robert could have been so wrong about Woodhull was unfathomable to him. He peered over his shoulder at the men conversing amicably, desperate to catch Woodhull’s attention. The tavern was busy this time of day and the low hum of the other officer’s conversation only added to his disquiet.

When Woodhull purposefully concentrated only on Cooke, Robert approached him cautiously. As he ascended upon them, he regarded him vigilantly, a feverish flash of acknowledgement lighting up his eyes. It was all Robert needed to grasp he was still held safely in York City’s shadows, no one the wiser to his sympathies.   


“May I offer you anything Mr. Woodhull?” He asked expectantly, hoping he didn’t appear as ridiculous as he felt.

“No, I’m fine.”

His reply was relaxed, but his eyes met the table immediately, keeping careful observation of his battling thumbs.

Straightening, Robert offered a gentle sign of truce, his hands placed neatly behind his back. 

”Then may I offer my condolences on your father’s death?”

“You know each other?” Cooke interrupted, eyeing them carefully.

“He used to stay at my boarding house when he ran hogs for his father.” Robert quietly explained, never releasing Woodhull from his dark gaze.

“Well, he’ll be running hogs again soon!” Cooke bellowed, good-naturedly. 

Robert ignored the man and instead asked Woodhull a question he already knew the answer to, “Last I recall you were studying the law?” 

Woodhull shifted uncomfortably in his seat before peering between him and Cooke, a tight smile on his face,  


“Well,” he said seriously, “Plans change. My father’s dead and I’ve come here to see Benedict Arnold…and get justice.” The word justice dripped with resentment, and his blackened silver gaze locked on Robert’s, sending a shiver up his spine.

Then, without spectacle, he positioned himself toward Cooke, both men letting him know his presence was no longer needed. 

Registering it was time for him to retreat back to the bar, Robert, determined to look like he had come over for an actual purpose, reached for the half-empty pitcher of ale at the center of the table. In his haste, Robert’s fingers brushed against Woodhull’s calloused ones as he tried to grab for his glass. His sweltering touch sparked against the smooth, coolness of his person, and Robert’s hand instinctively recoiled. 

Woodhull froze at the contact, eyeing Cooke with which Robert could only assume was terror. Why he would look at Cooke in such a way he didn’t know. It’s not as if the man knew they were anything more than acquaintances. The older, and rather rotund Colonel only gave the slightest peculiar expression as he watched them. Robert just hoped Cooke equated his awkwardness with priggish Quaker sensibilities, and nothing more.

He didn’t have trouble admitting to himself that just the circumstance of being in the same room with Woodhull, surrounded by Redcoats, left him feeling cold and panicked. The walls felt close and everyone’s eyes burned holes into his skin. 

Robert felt the same way he did when he first discovered the boiled eggs in Woodhull’s satchel. He had known he was up to something as soon as he appeared before him. It only took Robert a few calculated maneuvers and questions to figure him out. At the time, he couldn’t fathom how the man wasn’t dead already. He thought him reckless and flighty. After realizing his Judas eggs were missing, Woodhull returned to the boarding house to confront him. His nervous energy had filled the room. It was suffocating. Robert remembered vividly the exact change in his expression as soon as Woodhull realized he knew his secret. At least then, the cold panic was warmed slightly by the satisfaction of being right.

_**Yet he still underestimates me.** _

Woodhull refused to look up at him; no acknowledgment or comfort given. His expression was sour as if to say “go away.” If only he knew how nothing sounded more blissful to him than returning to his father’s farm, unbothered- especially by one rather _irritating_ cabbage farmer- for the rest of his life. How thankful his nerves would be.

A short, exasperated breath left his lips, and Robert grabbed the pitcher again, this time with untroubled efficiency. He then proceeded back to the bar, retreating to the small pantry to hide. He took a deep breath and tried to keep his shaking hands busy, rearranging the shelves he had already organized the day prior. He successfully ignored Woodhull and his companion, not noticing him until he felt the searing scrutiny of his stare burn at his ears. Robert refused to give him the satisfaction of meeting his eyes. 

**Now is not the time, Woodhull** , He thought grumpily.

After a long moment Woodhull finally gave up, and Robert heard the bell chime as he opened the door to leave. He only just caught the sight of his proud, scarlet tailcoats radiating in the sunlight as he turned the corner. The room opened up with his departure, like the lifting of a veil or opening of a cage, giving space to his anxious spirit.

Robert groaned to himself as he still meaninglessly rearranged cups. He knew he had to get to the party that night. It was the only way he could possibly speak to him without raising any suspicion. 

**********************************

  
Outside the Kennedy House, the gentle music and rowdy chatter of the party sleepily drifted from the grand house’s windows. It meandered lazily, past the waiting carriages, down the street, and into the trees where the chirping insects returned the cheerful call. Robert stood there a while, at war with himself. He itched to enter the building, but he could not shake the sense of unease that had enveloped him the moment he saw Woodhull again. His arrival in York City would only make Robert’s life exceedingly more dangerous and well, _vexing_. He sighed, irritated with himself. Though he hated to admit it, not _all_ of it was dread. Excitement seeped at his edges. It made his heart thrum in his chest and his knees tremble. Whether or not that was brought on by the spying or the man, Robert couldn’t tell. 

_**God help me.** _

With one last resolute huff he made his way to the impressive porch. As he set foot in the entrance hall, he was overwhelmed by the soft light of the party and its cheery guests. The music swelled, and a footman offered to take his gray cloak. He couldn’t remember the last time, if ever, he had attended anything so grand. He had decided to use the excuse of letting Cooke know why Rivington neglected to show. He almost chuckled at the thought of the man stuck at home, a slave to his Christian duties. _**Serves him right.**_ The scoundrel had to account for his roguish ways at some point.

He stood in the hall a moment taking in the splendor around him. His gaze finally settled on the high-ceilinged parlor and of course, there he was. As soon as Woodhull’s eyes locked with his he shook his head in firm rejection. Undeterred, Robert moved towards him in stubborn defiance, but was spotted by Cooke.

“Townsend!” He called to him from the dining room behind him. Robert paused and turned to acknowledge him.

“I am not used to seeing the monk out of his friary.” Cooke teased. 

Robert tried to smile, but it was hard with Woodhull’s scattered intensity flittering at him from the parlor.

“I have come to convey my partner’s regrets.” He chimed politely, “to you and to the young lady who’s asking after him, but Rivington’s wife has just returned from the country.”  
His words were true, but it felt like a lie. He gave Cooke a pointed look and hoped he caught his meaning. 

Cooke’s eyebrows raised with interest and if Robert deciphered correctly, humor. “Well,” he replied, “as the good book says, “Eat, drink, and be merry.” 

“For tomorrow we die.” He finished under his breath, turning back towards Abraham who had been watching them. He was thankful, at least, for a reason to justify him staying. 

He startled as Abraham made his way directly toward him, so close he could feel the fractious agitation radiate off of him. His energy was edgy and wild, even as he held his hands behind his back in an attempt to hide it. His eyes stayed focused on Arnold though, purposefully ignoring him as he passed by.

To anyone else, the farmer from Oyster Bay may just appear nervous at all the unfamiliar company, but Robert knew exactly what anxieties swarmed through his entire body.   
Even so, as Woodhull headed towards Arnold, Robert relentlessly tracked him with his eyes hoping he could feel it. He refused to let himself give in. If he had learned anything from the spy ring he was forever entwined with, it was that he had a stronger will then he originally gave himself credit for.

  
Though he ultimately decided to return to his post within the Culper Ring, Robert was loath to admit how angry he still felt. His father’s Thanksgiving dinner and the repercussions of all Woodhull’s lies still made him shudder with rage. Maybe he was being petulant, but it felt good to watch Woodhull sweat. It felt good to inconvenience him if nothing else. 

He decidedly did not wish to know God’s thoughts on the matter. 

With nothing left to do as Woodhull spoke with Arnold and his wife, Robert languished. For a long while he made vague pleasantries and pretended to drink his wine. Eventually he decided he had made an adequate effort to appear cordial, and so broodily stationed himself against the thick, wooden wall of the entrance hall. The lacquered coolness against the back of his head centered him, partially snuffing out his smoldering nerves.

He had lost track of the irksome “officer” and decided to watch the door instead in case he tried to slip away unnoticed. He wouldn’t escape him, but his nonsense was tiring. And Robert was starting to forget why he had come here in the first place.

When he finally spotted him fleeing the cloak room, looking nervous as ever, Robert took his opportunity. He, quite literally, pounced at him. 

“Not now.” Woodhull testily protested, his eyes directed at the party. 

Robert had had enough. He swiftly grabbed the chamber pot offered by the poor wretch of a servant, and emphatically pushed against the front of Woodhull’s chest. He puffed out his shoulders and used his size to steer him backwards. Woodhull was forced to turn around as to not cause a scene, and defeated, headed back to the make-shift water closet.

Shoving him through the door, Robert set the pot on the floor and looked around excitedly. The confined room had oppressive teal wallpaper and smelled of cedar and urine. He checked for others, even awkwardly peering under the thick, velvet curtain to see if anyone else was in the other room. Woodhull’s breath was loud and aggravated behind him, but before he could say anything, Robert turned to him and cornered him against the wall. 

“I did not stay in New York to sit still.” He declared, firmly peering down at him. “You’re after him aren’t you? And you need my help.” 

“We can talk about this later.” He whispered, exasperated. He pushed lightly at him, his hand pressing against his abdomen as he tried to maneuver around him.

Robert shifted his body in his path to block him from leaving. He wouldn’t stand for it. He was not going to keep him out of this. He hadn’t risked his life so that he could be left out of the loop and vulnerable.

_**Or taken for a fool.** _

“No,” he whispered sharply, and moved his body closer to him, hoping that his height would intimidate the wiry man. Knowing how scrappy he was though, Robert wasn’t sure that anything really intimidated him. Robert really wasn’t convinced he _could_ be an intimidating person in the first place. 

As he crowded his space, Robert felt his thigh rest against his which made Woodhull further retreat against the wall. There was nothing between them but heat and bated breath. He didn’t let his determined gaze falter and forced Woodhull to look him in the eye. Even though it seemed he understood he wasn’t getting out of this, Woodhull’s nervous energy surrounded them like an electric canopy. He was like lightning, a raging storm against his own cool plains, but Robert would not be put off by his obstinance. 

“You _will_ meet me outside the coffeehouse tonight. At the side door.” Even Robert was surprised by the vehemency in his hushed command. Woodhull bounced on his feet and looked away. 

“I really do need to go.” He begged, looking anywhere but at him.

Robert knew he was searching for an out, an escape, anything that would cause this conversation to cease. He would not allow that to happen, and dropped himself lower, trying to regain eye contact. 

“ _Abraham_ ,” Robert finally implored. 

Without thinking, he brought his hand to his chin guiding his face back to him. The brush of their skin sent a jolt through his fingers and up his arm. He was pleased to see the touch brought Abraham back to himself. The candlelight beamed through the crack of the door. It caught the edge of his dusky irises and filled the hollows of his narrow face. 

When Robert realized his hand still gently cupped Abraham’s jaw he swiftly shifted it back at his side. Embarrassed, he could feel the heated blush rise in his cheeks, and his shoes seemed like the most agreeable things to examine. 

A beat passed between them, and he felt Abraham shift on his heels. His courage returned and he forced himself to carefully observe him again. Abraham studied his traitorous hand where it rested, an extraordinarily peculiar expression upon his face. His scrutiny lingered along Robert’s arm and up his shoulder to his neck, then further up still, to his face. _His eyes._ It was as if he had just realized something he hadn’t before. It prickled Robert’s skin and made his ivory neck tie feel exceedingly tight. Sweat pooled at the hollow of his throat, and his finger’s twitched. He had a mind to rip it off.

After a long moment, Abraham surrendered and rested his head back against the wall, breathing out heavily. In his usual casual way, he brought his hand hesitantly to Robert’s shoulder and, almost tenderly, picked imaginary lint from his coat. He watched his own hand as he did so, assiduous and slow.

Then finally, his mouth set in an exceedingly iron-willed line, eyed him knowingly. In a suppressed, but firm whisper he agreed, 

“I’ll be there.” 

His gentleness faded with his agreement, and he pushed against him roughly. He ducked spryly around Robert, who was left in the darkness to figure out what he had just given away. 


End file.
